The Many Moods of Harry Potter
by Systatic
Summary: Fifty-Five Fantastically Fortuitous Fleeting Fictions for Feelings – Concerning the moods of our dearest Harry Potter, because Ron is the one with the emotional range of a teaspoon – Harry-centric drabbles/vignettes – Latest: Cruelty
1. Guilty

_Warnings: AU as of OOTP's Department of Mysteries fight._

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One

**Guilty**

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He was drowning. The waters were churning, curling, crushing; the weight of his guilt burdened his shoulders with constant reminders of his disgrace, his failure. Every time he found purchase on the sharp, rocky cliffs of life, he was flung back off with vicious force, one resounding word echoing in his brain. _If, if, if…_

It was _his_ fault that Sirius fell through the veil, that Ron was strangled to death by the grasping tentacles of the Unspeakable's disgusting experiments. The knowledge of Hermione's constant fight against the icy fingers of death, the loss of Ginny's hand, and Luna's leg—it all came back to his _stupid_ decisions to play the hero.

His stupidly, naively loyal friends and his stupidly, lovingly loyal godfather—none of them would have been there if he had just _listened_, if he had put aside that idiotic Gryffindor tendency to leap without looking and drudged up the Slytherin instincts he'd buried so deep inside.

_It was all his fault._

Harry released the air he withheld, breathing in biting flood of his guilt, and filled his lungs, his veins, his memories with the chilling burn of his inadequacy. He drowned.

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_Words: 194_


	2. Fury

_Warnings: AU as of DH's Final Battle._

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Two

**Fury**

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Harry ran with single minded intensity—ducking! dodging! weaving!—through the hail of multicolored spells. He leaped over the corpses of comrade and rival, his magic curling around him, encasing him in an aura of terrifying green light that lashed out at anyone stood in his path. His breath came in gasps, and he shuddered with the force of his fury. His face was contorted, teeth bared, eyes flashing, his glasses lost somewhere in the castle.

Voldemort would die. _Tonight_.

_I hate you!_ Every cell in his body _screamed_ with rage. He wanted to rip him—shred him—to pieces, to savor the screams of his nemesis like he was sure that he savored _theirs._

His body was drenched in blood—in _their_ blood, serving a reminder to his purpose: slay, maim, _destroy_ the one that killed his dearest and most precious friends.

Harry shrieked and swore at the snake-like visage, he tore and crushed until his fingernails split and his hands were dripping with the blood of his enemy. Hot, angry tears coursed down his cheeks, streaking through the dark fluid dotting his skin. _Bring them back!_ He yelled, hands clenching and shaking the carcass beneath him. _Give them back to me!_

Even after the Aurors dragged him from Voldemort's unrecognizable corpse, Harry cried out his hatred for the man that slaughtered his two closest friends.

The sky was painted red.

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_Words: 232_


	3. Loneliness

_Warnings: None._

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Three

**Lonely**

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Harry huddled in the corner of his bedroom, the rusted springs of his cot squealing their protests. It'd been a month since he'd returned to the abandoned, solitary confines of Number Four Privet Drive. A month since he'd last heard his name. He'd been locked in his room the moment he'd arrived and had yet to hear a single sound. The house was deafeningly quiet.

Silence was his constant companion now. Even his thoughts were muted. His stomach stopped growling for sustenance a long time ago. He had forgotten what food tasted like.

This place was sucking the life out of him. He ached for his friends, for letters, for any sign that he existed, that he was important to the outside world.

But he received nothing—nothing but hot wind and the sun beating down on his skin for all the hours he spent looking out the single small window in his tiny cell of oblivion.

And so he sat there, staring blankly at the wall before him, chanting his name, if only to relieve the aching loneliness shrouding his heart, if only to remember that he was real.

_Harry, Harry, Harry…_

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_Words: 193_


	4. Wistfulness

_Warnings: None._

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Four

**Wistful**

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Long fingers trailed across the beaming faces, caressing the cool glass separating his world from theirs. The man—who looked so much like him—held the woman—whose hair was red as fire and eyes were as green as freshly cut grass—like she was the most precious thing in the world. They were held in a tiny frame, a perfect little snapshot of a happier time.

Harry bit his lip. He wanted that. He wanted someone to love him with such fierce abandon that they would give their very lives for him, and he wanted to be able to love them back with just as much, if not more, intensity. He wanted someone real, someone tangible—oh, how he wanted that, needed that.

Giving one last caress to the smiling faces of his late parents, Harry turned away to gaze at his two best friends from the back of the assembly, one dressed in white, the other in black, and their hands joined. Their love for one another was palpable.

_Do you, Ronald Weasley, take Hermione Granger to be your partner in all things, to love and trust, care for and cherish?_

_ I do._

_ And do you, Hermione Granger, take Ronald Weasley to be your partner in all things, to love and trust, care for and cherish?_

_ I do._

Harry looked away, a single tear falling from his eyes, and stowed the picture frame back into his pocket. He would never have that.

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_Words: 244_


	5. Lust

_Warnings: Implied sexual content._

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Five

**Lusty**

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The slide of skin against skin, harsh pants, stifled cries, and whimpers of immeasurable pleasure… the scent of sex was heavy in the air. Harry moaned lustily as skilled hands caressed him, worshiped him. He shut his eyes against the onslaught of sensation.

_Oh God_, he whimpered. Fingers danced across sensitive skin. His hands tangled in dark hair and his back arched as white exploded across his vision, harsh breaths escaping his swollen lips.

His body tensed and jerked as he came, stars bursting before his eyelids, nerves burning—screaming—wailing their satisfaction. He fell back limply, his strong back impacting the smooth silk sheet, sliding against them sensually. His partner chuckled deviously as they crawled up his body, straddling his chest, and leaned down to whisper heatedly in his ear.

_That's only the beginning._

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_Words: 135_


	6. Tranquility

_Warnings: None._

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Six

**Tranquility**

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Harry sighed in contentment, tilting his face up to absorb the warmth of the sun's golden rays. Blue, blue sky, as far as they eye could see, only marred by the occasional cheerfully fluffy white cloud. Air embraced him in enchanting, spiraling dances like the twirl of graceful ballerinas and dragged cool fingers through his hair, the touch as soothing as any mother's. Birdsong twittered in his ears, leaves rustled, and gentle waves lapped against the pebbled shores of Hogwarts' dark-watered lake.

The day was… calm. Students were still ensconced in their classes, watched by the attentive, hawk-like eyes of their professors. Harry delighted in the brief moment of stolen silence, of peace, shared with the awe-inspiring bloom of nature and unbroken by the shrieks and giggles of his peers.

He smiled, laughing in ecstasy at the serenity that surrounded him, so rare in the ever-escalating tensions that war brought. He would never forget this moment, this _perfect_, laconic period where the world outside his untainted paradise simply didn't exist.

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_Words: 170_


	7. Deceitful

_Warnings: Implied homosexual relationship__._

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Seven

**Deceitful  
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They couldn't know, none of them. It was wrong of him, he knew. He lied every time he saw them, every time he smiled, every time he laughed, every time he made a promise. He, Harry Potter, was a deceitful fraud.

_I understand what I have to do; I'll save them._ Lie. _I love you guys._ Lie. _Professor Dumbledore, you can trust me. I won't let you down_. **Lie.**

And he didn't care—he didn't care that every tie he had to the Light was unraveling, rotting away in the face of his treachery. They represented the past to him, the pain, the manipulations and expectations of a nation.

Harry slunk through the dark gloom of the corridors silently, squeezed into the passage behind the one-eyed witch, and shuffled out of Honeyduke's cellar. He was but a wraith in the cool night air of Hogsmeade's streets, a wisp flitting from shadow to shadow.

He sighed blissfully as strong arms wrapped around him, sheltering him. He leaned into the embrace, inhaling the sharp, intoxicating scent of his lover. _Tom, I missed you._

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_Words: 181_


	8. Loyalty

_Warnings: Character death__._

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Eight

**Loyalty  
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No matter how many times they told him to leave, to save himself, he rejected their pleas. Harry screamed as his body convulsed under the pain of the _Cruciatus_ curse, his nerves shrieking and cursing in torment. A high-pitched, insane laugh punctuated the release of the spell, and he collapse, head slamming against the cold stone floor. He panted, chest heaving, as he tried to clear the fog of agony from his brain. His eyes registered the blurry figure in front of him: Voldemort.

He suppressed a flinch as a cold, bony hand trailed down his cheeks, neck, and sweaty chest. "You're a very brave boy, Harry Potter," he said with his hissing accent, "very brave. But you're also astonishingly stupid."

Harry watched, his heart clenching, as green light sped towards Ron and Hermione. It engulfed them in a shower of sparks, and they fell, muscles slack, to the floor with dull _thuds_. Their last words—_We love you, Harry_—were a lullaby to his bleeding ears, where his screams still echoed.

There was no hope for the Wizarding World, for the people that betrayed him and his friends for the empty promises of glory, of peace—peace that would be snatched from them by Voldemort's selfish, subjugating hand. _They_ could rot for all he cared.

It was his two friends, who endured the torture at his side with unflinching, unwavering devotion that he cherished. He lived with them, loved with them, and he would die with them, no matter what the outside world said. His loyalty ensured that.

_Avada Kedavra._

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_Words: 261_


	9. Excitement

_Warnings: None__._

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Nine

**Excitement  
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Harry grinned eagerly as Ron pulled him down the dorm stairs. It was Christmas morning—his _first_ Christmas.

Harry remembered watching the celebration of his relatives through the metal grate in his cupboard door. For his entire life, he had been transfixed by the glittering, flickering, blinking lights—red, green, blue, and yellow—circling a snowy white or evergreen tree. He remembered Aunt Petunia draping strings of popcorn and tinsel over the doorways, transforming them into mystical arches into new and perfect worlds, humming carols all the while. Holly was nestled into random corners of the house, the sprigs of red and green constant reminders of the festive season. The entire thing was… magical, a word he had been forbidden to say, but the only word that had been fitting.

But now, now he had his _own_ Christmas! His _own_ friends! It was _his_ turn to be part of that warm, giving embrace, surrounded by people he knew and cared for—people he loved. It was _his_ turn to receive boxes wrapped with loving hands, presents picked out just for _Harry_.

His heart leaped in his chest and blood sang in his veins. His footsteps were light, bouncy, as he skipped down the steps and flew across the common room to crowd around his housemates, around the enormous tree that decorated the far side of the scarlet and gold room, Ron at his side.

Ron turned to him with smiling eyes, and handed him a sloppily covered parcel. _Happy Christmas, Harry, _he seemed to say.

Harry grinned, taking it, savoring it, and his fingers shook in his excitement, _Happy Christmas, Ron._

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_Words: 271_


	10. Disappointment

_Warnings: None__._

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Ten

**Disappointment  
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Harry knew he should have expected this. He knew he should have never have let his guard down. He was weak for but one moment, and it all led to this.

He watched, disappointed—in himself, in his failing—as Ginny scrambled to find clothing to cover her naked form, blubbering excuses and apologies while her smug lover lounged on their bed, eyeing him in satisfaction, pale, pointed features twisted into a mockery of a smile. Harry and Ginny's bed, where their children were conceived, was dirtied, desecrated by her selfish desires. Ginny's eyes showed remorse, guilt, anger—that she was caught, not that she had committed her crime, not that she had soiled the sacred vows they had taken on their marriage day.

The _one_ time he allowed himself to love, the one time he opened up his heart, he ended up getting it broken.

Harry turned away from the revolting scene, gathered his two sons and his daughter, and floo'd to the ancestral Potter Manor, a place he was suddenly glad he had refused to live in, a place that he had kept secret, kept safe from the woman who had taken his heart into her hands and _crushed_ it in her ignorance.

And he vowed to himself that he would love them as much as his shattered spirit allowed—his children would never suffer that betrayal.

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_Words: 229_


	11. Confidence

_Warnings: None__._

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Eleven

**Confidence  
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Harry walked into the exam room with his head held high. He had worked for this moment—trained, sweated, and bled for this moment. He had ensured that he would _earn_ this on his own merit, his own talent, and not by riding on the coattails of his fame.

He nodded at the proctor as he took his place on the dueling platform with ten people at his opposite. He ignored the examiner's doubtful look—it didn't matter that he was only seventeen, only just graduated from Hogwarts, readied his wand, and struck.

Spells rained down on his opponents, overwhelming them, and they fell not five seconds into his assault, immobilized and tied. Harry stopped at the examiner's command, relaxed his stance, and waited, his breathing even and controlled.

A grin overtook his features when he read the paper given to him. It was pale and thin, obviously high quality, and the lettering was in gold. Five signatures bordered the bottom of the page, the ink still drying. He was unsurprised at the results—he had known that he would succeed. After all, he had some of the best and most powerful teachers training him to the best of their abilities.

He walked out just as he had walked in, a smirk on his lips, the men he had defeated still bound and gagged, forgotten in the excitement of Harry's devastating victory, and took the proffered badge.

It read: _Harry Potter, Auror of the British Ministry of Magic._

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_Words: 248_


	12. Arrogance

_Warnings: None__._

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Twelve

**Arrogance  
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Harry smirked at his fans, shaking hands, posing for pictures, basking in the rays of their admiration, in their envy, in the blinding flash of cameras, in the overwhelming roar of screaming voices.

_Harry! _They chanted, hoping for a glance at their hero, _Harry Potter!_ He loved the sound of his name on their lips. Their worship was justified, warranted.

He ignored the voice in his head, each word dripping with acidic condemnation and disgust, ignored that it sounded much like his dead potions professor, a man that had been the one person that never lied to him. What did the man know? He had lived a life reviled by the public, ignored and overshadowed by the larger players on the field. Harry, on the other hand, was loved, adored—he _deserved_ this attention, and it was only right that he enjoy it.

He laughed as a particularly devoted fan, a rather pretty blonde girl, grabbed his face and planted a fierce kiss on his lips, slipping her floo address into the folds of his jacket with directions to '_come naked.'_ He winked at her as she pulled away, stars in her eyes, a look that was expected after kissing him, of course.

He was, after all, the Chosen One.

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_Words: 194_


	13. Mournful

_Warnings: None__._

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Thirteen

**Mournful  
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Harry wandered the halls of Hogwarts long into the night, his footsteps echoing off of the granite floors ominously. The corridors of his home were no longer filled with warmth, with comfort. All that was left was pain, grief.

Portraits, usually so lively in both wakefulness and sleep, were utterly silent. Torches, interspersed along the wall in even intervals, flickered, their light dampened by the roiling emotions that hung over him, around him, like a thick, cloyingly suffocating fog.

One hand traced the cold stones of the walls while the other was fisted loosely around a holly wand, the tip alight with a pale glow. The halls seemed to shift and moan, to sob with anger, with sadness, to howl out their anguish where Harry was unable to. Harry walked, alone, eyes overflowing with burning tears, crying for where the castle couldn't.

It was as if Hogwarts itself was mourning with him for the loss of their beloved Headmaster.

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_Words: 159_


	14. Cruelty

_Warnings: Torture, slightly strong negative imagery__._

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Fourteen

**Cruelty  
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Harry suppressed a gleeful chuckle. The surprise in their eyes had been fantastic, their fear, _delicious_. They hadn't suspected that he would repay their _kindness_ tenfold. They had grown complacent, cocky in the relative peace of their existence. It had been time to remind them who was at the top of the food-chain.

He shuddered in arousal, tendrils of pleasure dancing up his spine and pooling in his belly. Their screams were—_oh so very good_.

He couldn't suppress his laugh this time, and the high, insane giggle resonated beautifully with their moans of pain. They stank of sweat, shit, and piss. _Yessss, suffer_, he hissed to himself. _I want you to _suffer.

His eyes were dark, almost black, with contained malice. His fingers, wrapped around his precious wand in a white-knuckled grip, dripped with their red blood. The color interested him—it was the same color as his; he would have thought that mud ran through their veins—filth, trash, just like they were.

The Dursleys, disgusting pigs that they were, writhed and sobbed under the pain of his triple-_Cruciatus_. They were weak. Pitiful. He delighted in their agony; they deserved it and more after what they did, putting their dirty muggle hands on his body, hurting him, making him _bleed_.

_Suffer!_ Their shrieks carried through the night.

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_Words: 219_


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